


Every Fairytale Needs a Good Old Fashioned Villain

by aveotardis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aveotardis/pseuds/aveotardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will makes his first kill under Hannibal's watchful gaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Fairytale Needs a Good Old Fashioned Villain

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is super fucked up and I'd say I'm sorry but I'm really not. The title comes from the amazing show Sherlock, episode "The Reichenbach Fall."

This is my design.

I feel the thick warmth against my skin, the smell of raw flesh. The knife digs in, cuts out. I want to tear the flesh to pieces, to consume it. I don’t even bother with cooking it and in the back of my mind I hear a voice scold me. I pay no attention.

The liver is the first, my teeth sink into it. The blood trickles down my chin, my throat, my chest. I don’t care, can’t care. All I want is the slick slide as I swallow. I thought the first time I might throw up. But as I look up to see eyes watching me I know I can’t. I don’t.

“You want me?” I ask those stone eyes, a light just pale enough to see them in the dark.

“Always,” he says back.

“Even like this?” I say and shove the rest of the raw liver into my mouth. I see him smile.

“Especially like this,” He replies. I straddle the body, a man, a hiker, lost his way in the woods. Like Hansel and Gretel. He landed in an evil place. Maybe the dogs set him at ease at first. But I had something to prove. The knife was in his gut before he could even scream.

He didn’t die right away, though. No, that’s not how he taught me, and he taught me well. He struggled, the poor thing. But I shooshed him and cradled his head as he bled around the knife, onto my hand. I pulled out the knife and watched the river of red torrent from his abdomen, pool around his feet and he swayed and cried out and I felt my stomach convulse into my chest.

“Please,” he said as he died. I watched the life leave his eyes like a little flame extinguished in a sudden gust of wind.

“Would you do the same to me?” I ask the darkness that surrounds me as I try to decide what to eat next.

“No,” is the simple answer.

“What part of me would you eat first?” I press on as I cut into the bottom half of the left lung. I’ve had lungs before, didn’t know it at the time.

“I want your heart,” he says as he sat forward in the chair and watched as I tossed bits of lung to the pile of dogs waiting near the fireplace.

“You would eat my heart first,” I say. Like the Evil Queen he would keep it in a box, a momentum of his conquest.

“No,” he says again and this time he stands out of the chair. I toss another piece of lung to the dogs, they wag their tails happily. He strides over and squats down, his knees come to rest on either side of the dead man’s open chest. He cards a soft hand over my face. “I want your heart.”

“And what do I get in return?” I ask with the knife stuck half-way through the esophagus. He leans forward and presses his lips to me, soft and reassuring. I am a prisoner of my own design but I am free to take what is mine.

Love is sometimes a strong word, a made up word, a word we use to describe a feeling that we are too confused to find another word for. Sometimes, rarely, it is the right word. It means a great deal and it belongs. I want his love. I want his heart. I want to eat his soul.

“Anything,” he answers with lips ghosting against my chin as he speaks. I release the handle of the knife and it stays imbedded in its host. The blood will stain. I will never see my hands without the slide of red on them. Maybe that just means I should choke the next one. Feel the breath as it leaves, casts aside its body and floats into the stars and carries with it the weight of nothing but regret and sorrow.

“This is my design,” I say and feel a blood soaked hand catch his wrist. He smiles, I don’t see it, I feel it. His kiss is more vengeful, hungrier. He is proud. I can still hear the dead man hiccup in struggle, clinging to the last vein of life. At first it feels like a punch in the chest but with hands running up my arms, tongue sliding against my teeth, it feels like victory.

It is all a fog, like I see it through a filter, like I am no longer myself. Yet I have never felt more real before. Until this moment I have been a sham. I was a man catching killers, seeing through their eyes, repeating their crimes instead of making my own. This is what he has wanted from the day we met. This is what he has been driving me toward. Freedom.

“Do I have your heart, William?” he asks against the curve of my jaw. I unbutton my shirt and strip it off. The blood has ruined it, but he’s never been fond of that one anyway.

“Yes,” I say because he already knows the answer. I close my eyes and see my hands around Alana’s neck, the fear on her face as she realizes. I see Jack’s confusion that quickly turns into cries of pain as I cut into his skin. But we must be careful now. They have gotten close, too close to live, but too close to die. It must be done with ease.

“Do you love me?” he asks and I pull his belt free. He loves to wear clothes when we fuck. I love to be bound immobile to the headboard with one of his silk ties. I love the smile he had when he knew that I knew. I love his fingers and the way they press bruises into my skin. I love his teeth and the way they bite and draw blood and scrap against the outline of bone. I love the way he has destroyed me and put me back together, a puzzle piece at a time.

“Yes,” my voice croaks. Is he the villain of this story or am I? Have we become the enemy to the valiant hero of this tale? Or will we win the day? He snakes a hand around my cock and I feel warm and cold and hot and dry and wet and safe and unlevel and unrelenting.

What is love but the overpowering feeling of wanting to kill to keep safe what is yours?

He fucks me in the blood and the bowels of the man that lies cold and dead below us. He whispers his love for me over and over, a mantra and a promise. The sweat stings my eyes, the blood iron in my mouth, not sure if it belongs to me or him or the corpse. Perhaps all three.

I hear my own cries call out into the night as he pushes deeper, rougher. I cling to his neck, dig my nails into his vertebrae. He says my name in a way that he only ever says when it’s just the two of us. For my ears only. He fucks into me and I can’t see straight. Sometimes I think a part of me, the old part of me, what I used to be, comes clawing to the surface when we fuck.

The lightening shoots through my skin and I bury the feeling of the old me down, below skin and bone and organ and reality. He doesn’t belong here anymore. He is dead. I scream out. I say his name and he looks at me and his hair is a mess and god I love it when he’s like this. He’s free and I’m free and we are prisoners of each other. I come with his name still stained deeper and darker than any blood could ever reach.

He whispers in my ear a promise.

We can be together forever.

One way or another.

Happily ever after.


End file.
